


A Rembrandt, A Van Gogh and Clarke (Walk Into A Museum)

by theyrechasingme



Series: anything you can do, i can do better [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Thief AU, criminals and art thieves the little shits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 00:42:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17436593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyrechasingme/pseuds/theyrechasingme
Summary: “I thought you were dead.”“Tried it, didn’t like it.”“That’s not how that works.”(Or the one where Clarke wants a painting and really, who is Bellamy to say no?)





	A Rembrandt, A Van Gogh and Clarke (Walk Into A Museum)

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys, i've been gone a while but now i'm back with my favourite piece yet, i really hope you enjoy it x

**SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA**

Bellamy is sitting in a window-side booth of a burger joint on the edge of Bondi Beach when Clarke slides into the seat opposite him. He’s halfway through a mouthful, watching the waves lap against the beach like it’s any other day when suddenly the leather squelches and he looks up to find her staring back at him. He only blinks but she can tell he’s surprised by the way he stops chewing.

He eventually resumes, “This better be good for you to interrupt my lunch.” he assures tiredly, taking another bite and licking the sauce off his chin.

Clarke reaches over to pick up a chip, “Didn’t you miss me?” she asks with a grin and a shimmer in her eyes that makes him slightly uneasy- but only because he knows what it means.

He narrows his eyes and places the burger back on the plate. He wipes his fingers with a napkin and then his mouth and sighs loudly, “You have a job.” he states like he’s tired or something because he's in Australia for a _break_ not for more _jobs._

She feigns confusion, “What makes you say that?”

He waves his hands, “What is it? A diamond? A painting?” he raises an eyebrow, “A bank?” he asks carefully.

She steals another chip, “Who says there’s a job?” she asks again.

He uses his index and middle finger to point at her face, “Your eyes.”

“Who says you’re in on it?” she concedes.

He almost laughs- _almost_ , “You’re funny.”

She smirks and lets a small silence roam while she decides what to do, listening to the waves and the chatter and the faint prickle of water on her skin.  She then points at his plate, “Are you going to finish that burger?”

He cocks his head, “Are you going to answer my question?”

She pauses, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes before she crosses her arms and leans forward in her seat. “It’s big,” she states.

“How big?” he demands.

“Huge,” Clarke says again but slightly slower to emphasise.

He crosses his arms and purses his lips, leaning back in the leather booth while she continues to steal his food. He tries really hard to ignore the feeling in his gut because Clarke is planning something and he knows he’s not going to like it, “It’s going to get me killed isn’t it?” he asks seriously.

She shrugs, munching loudly on his food, “Not if you do your job properly.” she says with a smirk.

He blinks and blinks again. His voice is sharp and harsh and she almost flinches when he says, “No.”

She frowns, “No?” she repeats.

He smiles almost sadly and pushes the burger away from him, taking a slurp of his milkshake, “No.” he says again, stronger.

“What do you mean _no?”_ Clarke asks again, leaning forward with an almost wild urgency in her eyes.

He scoffs, “Do you want to hear it in Spanish? _No.”_ he says sarcastically, shaking his head again.

Her eyes darken and narrow and she leans closer if that’s even possible- and she’s still got that look in her eyes, the one that doesn’t make him feel safe. “This job is _huge._ ” she reiterates.

“Huge jobs bring trouble, and so do you.” He purses his lips, narrowing his eyes at her like he’s done hundreds of times before. It’s this look, just this look in her eyes that has him uneasy, the way she’s excited and bounding on the tip of her toes, it screams trouble and he doesn’t like trouble- especially not the trouble that follows Clarke. “But you know this, so there’s no way you’d bring it to me unless it was important to you.” he pauses, “So, is it important to you?” he asks, sharpening his gaze.

She frowns, “What, the job?”

He nods, “The job.”

She lets out a breath, her fingers interlacing and she cracks her neck almost comically. She lowers her voice, glancing around as if the waitress suddenly knew about her criminal activities, “It’s worth 10 million on the legitimate market.” she murmurs.

But there’s no shimmer in her eyes and she tries to seem excited by the prospect of 10 mil but even she can’t fool him. “You were never in it for the money.” he points out.

She purses her lips, “It’s a Rembrandt.”

He scoffs, “You _definitely_ weren’t in it for any Rembrandts.”

She shrugs dismissively, “Rembrandts bring good money.”

“Again.” he interrupts, “You are not interested in either of those things so don’t fucking lie to me,” he demands and suddenly she realises he’s seen practically right through her. He takes a deep breath, rubbing his eyes and looks over at the ocean once more. He watches the waves come in and out and small children run giggling while their parents film them on phones and cameras. He purses his lips before he turns back to look at her, “You are a very good liar. One of the best in the business but you forget that I _know_ you and I know what _motivates_ you, and it is not _money_ or _Rembrandts_ but a form of revenge that _you_ created and abide by. Your own brand of robin hood. You steal things that you believe belong to others, and sometimes you steal things just for fun but never for money or personal gain.” he takes a breath, looking her in the eyes, “And then sometimes you steal for revenge. For what happened to your father, and every time one of _those_ jobs come around you get this look in your eyes; the one you have now and that scares me because he is dangerous-”

“I know full well what he is capable of.” she interrupts harshly- she lost a father because of _him_ , of course, she knows the dangers.

“I don’t think you do.” Bellamy assures, “Because if you _did_ you wouldn't even consider going up against him-”

“I’m not, okay?” she assures quickly, “I’m not.” he frowns and she swallows, running her fingers through her hair. “It’s just a painting my dad stole once in 1972 that was recovered by the government after he died and put back in the MMFA and is now on loan in Amsterdam. it’s a standard museum job.” she assures carefully, trying to dissuade his judgement.

He raises an eyebrow, “No weatherman?” he asks carefully.

She nods assuredly, “No weatherman.”

He purses his lips once more, eyeing her carefully before he lets out a sigh and rubs his eyes, “Fine- fuck, _fine._ What is it?”

__________

**30, 500 FT ABOVE THE SOUTH CHINA SEA**

It's late, or early, Clarke doesn't know what continent they're on and barely knows what time it is but she knows she should be asleep, fueling up for what's ahead. ( _Whose plane is this?_ She'd asked, as they boarded the private jet, _do you care?_ He responded, and the silence that followed told him no.)

Her knee is bouncing as she twists a pen and writes names down on a torn napkin with a coffee stain in the corner. She scribbles and huffs and changes her mind and closes her eyes and sighs- _fuck,_ why are so many people in jail, all the good talent is getting snatched up and locked away, what use are they in prison?

“Emori?”

Bellamy scoffs from his seat opposite her, his eyes are closed and his arms are crossed as he tries to sleep through this whole conversation, but alas Clarke's questions cannot remain unanswered so he sighs, “I wouldn't trust her with my lipstick.”

“Echo?”

He grunts, “Hates me.”

“What did you do?” She asks, narrowing her eyes.

He lets out a heavy breath, shuffling in his seat again and leaning his head back in the chair, “None of your business, nosy.” he mumbles.

She huffs, crossing echo’s name off the napkin list and purses her lips, “What are Monty and Jasper doing?”

He ponders for a moment, his eyes still closed like he could fall asleep any minute, “Jasper is currently serving a 12-year sentence in a maximum security Japanese prison and Monty is trying to break him out.”

She cocks her head, “Do you-”

“No doubt about it” He affirms.

“So I should-”

“It's your decision.” he reminds.

She frowns, “You disagree?”

He shrugs. “You know what Jasper's like.”

“Reliable” She points out, jerking her pen in his directions as if to say she has a point.

He shrugs again, yawning, “Unpredictable.”

She hums in agreement but holds out her hand like she’s weighing the options, “Loyal.” She reminds.

He scoffs, “ _Trouble.”_ He enunciates carefully.

She smiles slightly, “Worth it.” She adds, in both a statement and a question.

Bellamy titters, “Unfortunately.” She ticks Monty and jaspers names off, tapping her pen down the preliminary list of names, some crossed out and other circled.

The air is cold and she shivers, rubbing her upper arm with a yawn. She pushes the hair back from her face, yawning again and battling to keep her eyes open and Bellamy watches her through a crack of his closed eyes as she sits there, small and contained with big ideas in her brain begging to escape like some kind of waterfall.

“You should get some sleep.” He points out, one eye finally open.

She hums in some kind of noncommittal tone and ignores his statement, “We need a hitter.” she continues.

The man sighs, rubbing both eyes and thoroughly abandoning the hope of sleep, “Lincoln?” he shrugs, as if there’s really another option?

Clark shakes her head, “He's on a job in St Petersburg for the next six months.”

“Recommendations?” He asks curiously.

She huffs, “Only one.”

“Then why the face?” He asks carefully.

She shrugs, playing with the pen between her fingers and biting her lip, “I don't know her.” she says carefully.

Bellamy shrugs, “Lincoln's recommendation is good enough for me and usually would be for you too.”

“I don't _know_ her.” She repeats, harsher.

He scoffs, “Bite the bullet,  Clarke.” He almost snaps because she's being too cautious, “I didn't know _you_ once.”

She waves a hand, “That's different.”

He cocks his head, his eyes smooth chocolate and warm and swirling with curiosity, “is it?’ He asks carefully.

She doesn't expect to feel uneasy- like she's supposed to read between the lines and pick up on some hidden message. Why is it different? Clarke can't place her finger on it but there's something about her relationship with Bellamy that doesn't sit quite right with her. Some unspoken words tangled in vines of stolen glances and small touches invisible to any other eyes but their own. How sometimes she catches him looking at her like she's a fire burning so brightly that he can't look away, a mesh of fireworks trapped in a human body and he _stares_ and she swallows because she doesn't know what to do.

But no words are ever spoken about this strange relationship. So she smirks, something like _daring_ in her eyes, ticks the new hitter's names off the list and says; “Who's next?” Like he never asked the question.

“Getaway.”

“Harper?” Clarke suggests, pointing to the name on her napkin.

“Underground. She's on a beach somewhere in Samoa hiding from an Interpol manhunt.” He informs.

Clarke clicks her tongue, “A manhunt, nice.”

“We could try Murphy, he just got off a job in Shanghai.” Bellamy mentions as an afterthought.

The blonde raises both eyebrows, “Shanghai was _Murphy_?” She asks incredulously- only because Shanghai was a masterpiece that Clarke had studied very closely when the news broke across the internet. She deemed it genius, a work of art and almost impossible- and she took notes.

Bellamy makes a sound in the back of his throat, “Well, Raven helped him.”

“And there’s our con artist.” She exclaims slightly, scribbling Raven's name down on the napkin, “I think that's everyone.” She adds with a small smile.

He stares at her likes she's grown four heads and a tail and coughs, “ _Everyone?_ That's five people clarke, with us that makes seven and that's still not enough.”

She scoffs, “We've got a hitter, a hacker, a con man, a getaway, an explosives expert-” she cuts herself off to point at herself, “Brain-” she points at him this time, “And brawn.”

He rolls his eyes, “We need at least three con artist, two getaways and two hackers- maybe even an extra hitter because we don’t know if this woman is good enough. “

She cocks her head, “I thought you trusted Lincoln's recommendation?”

“That's not the point and you know it.” he almost snaps.

She waves him off, carefully folding the napkin and placing it in her pocket until she can burn even a whisper of its existence when they’re back on land. “You don't get veto and I know what I'm doing.”

He bites his tongue because he knows how Clarke works, if she doesn't want more people it's because she has a reason. But Bellamy doesn't know that reason so he opens his mouth anyway, “Eleven would be better.” he assures carefully.

She just shrugs, “Seven works fine.”

(Bellamy purses his lips _do you want me to run a background check on the new hitter?_ She nods, _you read my mind._ )

___________________

**AMSTERDAM, NETHERLANDS**

It’s 11:52 am, exactly a week after Clarke proposed the Job to Bellamy and they both find themselves on the balcony of a house in Amsterdam, looking over a canal like it’s just any other day. He is sitting in a metal garden chair with a book about the Dutch golden age between his fingers, while she leans against a garden table with a cigarette in hers.

“With peppers?”

Bellamy nods, “Red and green ones, throw in some potatoes-”

“But no jalapenos?” she asks, taking a puff and watching cyclists along the narrow pavement below.

He flicks the page of his book and shrugs, “I mean, it’s interchangeable. Recipes can be adapted-”

“Have you ever used tofu before?” she asks curiously, pushing the hair away from her face.

He cocks his head momentarily, listing to the whistling trees and distant sounds of gentle waves and then he nods, “Only when I was in China, the tofu there-”

“And did you use red or white onions?” she asks again, taking a puff of her cigarette and watching the smoke dissipate into the air.

“Neither.” he states, flicking to the next page. He procures a pen that was tucked behind his ear and scribbles something in the book, “I marinate the tofu in spring onions and tomatoes and some salt and-”

“What about mushrooms?” she asks quickly.

He folds his book and sighs, “Would you stop interrupting me?” he asks tiredly with a sigh.

“I just want to know if you use mushrooms.” she exclaims, almost defensively blowing out a puff of smoke.

He throws the book onto the garden table, “You don’t have to interrupt me.”

“So you don’t use mushrooms?” she says quickly and he groans.

“No, I do, I just-”

“So what the big deal?”

“ _That.”_ he exclaims, “You keep interrupting me.”

She grunts, “But I’m curious.”

He cocks his head, “Then wait until I’ve finished my sentence.”

They both feel the presence of another person, slowly wondering their way into the house and carefully approaching the balcony but neither of them feels threatened and neither of them makes any move to acknowledge their presence, “Okay, how about sweet corn?”

“Baby.” he replies, without batting an eyelid.

She frowns and when he looks at her like that her gut begins to twist in her gut and she tries not to blush or-, “Excuse me?” She eventually blurts.

He titters but misses the red that dusts the tips of her ears, “Baby sweet corn.” He rectifies.

“Uhh..” a voice interjects, and both Bellamy and Clarke necks turn slowly to look at the woman standing in the doorway. She tall with sharp eyes and brown hair but a distinct awkwardness to her presence which tells clarke she hasn’t done this much before. “Hi.” she says eventually, settling on a word.

Clarke takes a puff of her cigarette but neither of them says anything until she’s blown out a cloud of smoke. “And you are?” she asks, cocking her head.

“Octavia.” the brunette replies, almost throwing out her hand for a shake.

“Rookie.” Bellamy interjects, running his fingers through his hair, “Lincoln’s recommendation.”

Clarke frowns, glancing at her watch and taking another puff, “You’re early.”

The brunette swallows, “Only by 5 minutes.” she says quietly, like a little bird swarmed by vultures, trying to find a way out to a situation she wasn’t aware she was in.

The cloud of smoke from Clarke's mouth dissipates into the air as she slowly approaches the brunette, like a tiger stalking her prey and Octavia feels uneasy. She turns back to Bellamy, “Army?” she asks.

“Navy.” he says, glancing at the brunette almost pointlessly- like he already knows her life story.

Clarke grunts in approval, “She-”

“Very.” he interrupts, not batting an eyelid.

“And her-”

“Absolutely.” he agrees but Octavia has no clue what’s going on.

“But she-”

He sighs, “I know.”

Clarke shakes her head, almost sadly, “Unfortunate.”

Octavia raises an eyebrow, “Uh, what’s unfortunate?”

Bellamy glances at his partner and then back at the brunette, “There are fresh pastries in the kitchen. You’re welcome to as many as you would like, and then you are to exit the premises from the same way you came in- with the pastries as the only thing you have taken from this site.” he recites this like it’s something regretful, like he wishes he didn’t have to say these words. But the tone he uses; one so bland and low that it almost seems threatening; makes Octavia's hair prick on the back of her neck.

She stands dumbfounded for a moment, “But I don’t un-”

“She doesn’t.” Clarke says to Bellamy, almost in a sigh.

He purses his lips, “Do we have to?” he asks tiredly.

“Have to what?” the brunette interrupts, “What is going on? Is this all because I was _early?_ ” she demands angrily because honestly, she feels like she’s being fucked around.

And they both ignore Octavia, like she’s a secondary character to her own story, “You?” Clarke asks him.

Bellamy shakes his head, “I did _‘fresh pastries’_ , it’s your turn.” he assures, reaching for the cigarette between her fingers and taking a puff himself.

Clarke sighs, wiping the imaginary dust off her jeans as she re-approaches the brunette, “I was just early. I don’t… I really don’t understand.” Octavia assures, running her fingers through her hair, her eyebrows pinched above her nose.

The blond purses her lips, “Early means keen.” she says slowly, “Early means surveillance, wanting to know what you’re getting yourself into. Early means scouting, names to faces. Early means preparation, practice, repetition. early means bad under pressure and worse when you’re winging it. Early means quick to jump, slow to ask questions, trigger happy and panicky. Early means plans and rules and a spanner in the works is unthinkable. Early means bad on your feet. Early means you’re a wildcard, you’re dangerous. Early means you’re going to get us killed because you don’t know how to work with mistakes.” Octavia looks beyond confused but Clarke and Bellamy don’t look fazed at all- does early really mean that?

Octavia raises both eyebrows, still confused, “Excuse me?”

Bellamy wrinkles his nose and hands the cigarette back to Clarke, staring the brunette down just as much as the blonde, except he doesn’t do the theatrics he just gets straight to it, “Early means we don’t want you.”

“Early means you… what the fuck is going on?” she demands- she feels like she’s being played or something.

“You can leave.” clarke gestures back into the house with their cigarette trapped between the fingers she uses to point, “Take a croissant and say _au revoir_ to this job because you’re not on it anymore.” and with that she turns back to Bellamy, “How about chicken?” she asks, in a completely different tone of curiosity.

He purses his lips, both of them ignoring the fact that Octavia is still hovering in the door frame, “I think it’s better with beef.”

“I assume egg noodles?” She says, raising an eyebrow.

“Works with vermicelli just-”

“Early means you need me.” the brunette blurts.

Bellamy and Clarke look over at her once more, “Excuse me?” he asks, frowning.

Octavia’s stance changes; she stands higher, prouder and sharper and her eyes darken- she looks confident now. “Early means you need me. Do you see anyone else this prepared?” she asks carefully. “People who can work without a plan are just fine, but when everyone in your team can wing it, then none of them will stick to anything. If your Hitter likes to plan, then you’re guaranteed the rest will listen, especially if your hitter is good and especially if your hitter is me.” she swallows, stepping further into the balcony, “I don’t need to give you my work history because you already know it. Which means you know I’m the best.”

Clarke shrugs, “Lincoln’s the best.” she reiterates.

Octavia licks her lips and tries not to scoff, “I was the _only_ one Lincoln recommended- and that’s not because we share a vagina, it’s because I’m better than him and even _he_ knows that.” and if that doesn’t make Clarke fucking grin again, then nobody knows what will.

The blond turns to look at Bellamy with this wild look in her eyes, “She just-”

“Yep.” he agrees, popping the ‘ _p_ ’.m

“And I-”

“You have to.”

“Because she-”

“Impassioned, no?” he agrees, taking a puff of the cigarette still in his fingers.

She rubs her eyes with the ball of her hand and almost stomps her foot like a child, “Fine, rookie.” she mutters under her breath, “You’re in.”

__________

**15 YEARS AGO**

Clarke is seven years old, walking up the driveway of her home with her hand firmly clasped in her Nanny's as the older woman slides the key into the Mediterranean blue door and pushes it open. She adjusts the bright blue backpack filled with drawings and schoolwork and tightens her ponytail as the Nanny ushers her in with a brisk _come on darling_ and closes the door behind her.

She remembers distinctly the home she grew up in. A two-tiered building with stone walls and vines crawling around the outside, bursting with white flowers that she picked in spring to display on her bedside table. The driveway was shielded by an obnoxiously large and creaky blue gate to match the door with a small fountain serving as a roundabout where birds sang and drank to escape from the Italian Heat.

The indoor’s wasn't much different with stone walls and white walls and flowers in vases that the gardener kept updating and each time she would ask him what they were, and he excitedly rattled off their names and meanings and she would listen attentively. The house was big, beautiful and often empty with her dad on business trips and Clarke left to the care of others, something that riddled him with guilt. He'd video call with her almost every night and she'd show him drawings and schoolwork and sometimes even certificates- ( _I won an art competition_ she explained, waving the certificate right in the camera to make sure he could see and he laughed, _well done, I'm so proud of you_.)

He would apologise for being away all the time and promised that soon he would be at home with her more often- ( _hopefully this trip goes well, which means I won't have to go on another one ever again_ and she smiles so brightly that he knows he’s not making a mistake, _ever?_ She cried excitedly and he nodded, _ever ever_.) And she started to ramble about all the things they would do together and how she had a school play soon and she was playing a witch and he was so sure she'd be the best one there ever was.

But that day when she comes home from school, she doesn’t return to an empty house, but to one filled with music and the faint smell of toast and coffee and she knows he’s back. She notices painting and pottery lining the entrance corridor and frowns when she can’t find her favourite painting hanging in the living room like it usually is so she wanders to find her father. He’s hunched over a desk with a pencil trapped between his teeth and two canvas painting laid next to each other, one being the living room one and the other being brand new. He cuts away at something or other, rotating between the necessary tools and clarke feels like she’s in a workshop.

“What’s that?” She asks, pointing to the new canvas he’s slowly separating from its frame.

“It’s a Rembrandt.” He replies slowly, concentrating.

She purses her lips, “But that’s a Rembrandt.” She says pointing to her living room painting.

He titters, “You’re right.” He agrees but he doesn’t delve any further into it as he cuts away and moves painting the painting like his life depends on it (only to realises when she’s older that it does.)

She stays with him, handing him tools and paintbrushes and turning the music up as they sing along and the sun slowly begins to set and it feels like this moment could last forever, this pure joy suspended in time for just the two of them while they laugh and dance and eat dinner together.

Alas, nothing ever goes to plan.

___________

**PRESENT TIME**

“I have questions.” Jasper says, raising a hand from his school desk like he’s fourteen again in a maths class trying to understand what in the world differentiation is and what trigonometry even means.

“Me too.” Monty pipes in, pointing to Jasper Like he agrees and Clarke nods from the front of what really does seem like a class.

She feels like she’s channelling _el profesor_ from _las casa de papel_ with school desks laid out facing a wall of grainy surveillance photographs and various maps with bright red markers lines leading to what should be a big payday for all of them.

Raven clicks her tongue and waves a hand,  “I just don’t understand how-”

“Me neither.” Jasper interrupts before the brunette even finishes, “You’d need-”

“Three?” Murphy interjects, counting on his fingers with his eyebrows pinched above his nose.

Raven shakes her head, “Two could work.”

“Four is safer, the more you have the less likely they are to know which truck it’s in.” Monty quips waving his hands and sniffling lightly, he’s got a cold apparently.

“You don’t think someone’s going to notice _four_ trucks outside a museum?”  The brunette interjects, crossing her arms and raising an eyebrow.

“You don’t think someone’s going to notice a missing painting?” Murphy replies just as quickly and raven lets out a deep breath, pinching the top of her nose.

“That wasn’t my point and you know it.” She almost groans, her hands begging to be wrapped around his neck and _squeezing._

He shrugs, “Sure sounded like it.”

“He’s not actually on this job is he?” She asks, jerking her thumb in his direction and looking at Clarke with a glint in her eyes that says _I will kill him and you know it_ , “He’s just filling in until Lexa gets here, right?” She asks again.

Clarke pulls a face and Bellamy frowns when he sees the grimace on her lips, “Raven-”

“Who’s Lexa?” Monty asks, cocking his head as aliases and known associates filter through his brain like a supercomputer machine and still, he comes up blank.

“Lexa isn’t on this job.” The blonde says carefully, ignoring Monty’s question and cocking her head slowly at Reyes in some kind of warning like the brunette made a faux pas by mentioning Lexa’s name at all.

“Who’s Lexa?” Jasper asks, repeating Monty’s question like they share one brain- which they do and normally it’s funny but right now it’s unnecessary.

“Not on this job apparently.” Monty chimes in.

“Lexa from _the grounders_ , Lexa?” Bellamy asks, cocking his head both curious about who and _why?_

Murphy’s head whips around to stare at Clarke, “The Sydney crew? How the hell do you know someone from the _Sydney_ crew?”

And Octavia whistles, “Aren’t they _super_ exclusive?”

“The most exclusive.” Raven agrees, “They don’t work with outsiders.” She adds and Clarke sends her another glare that tells her to _be quiet._

“And you _know_ someone from the _Sydney_ crew?” Murphy repeats, his eyes wide and mouth agape.

“Most of all someone who would work with you even though you’re an outsider?” Bellamy demands, raising an eyebrow and she feels scrutinised under his watchful gaze.

Clarke turns her head to face Raven, “Look at what you did.” She comments, pointing to the people before her, “I told you not to say anything and of _course_ you go and open your mouth-”

“They were going to find out-”

“No they _weren’t._ ” she snaps back brashly, genuinely frustrated by Raven’s purposeful slip.

“Find out _what?”_ Bellamy almost demands, cocking his head because this is _new?_ Clarke likes rumours and hints at things she’s done but to hide something like the Sydney crew is _huge._

“Nothing.” She snaps, her eyes narrowing at him, “I’m not talking about this.” She adds sharply and they stare at each other for what feels like five minutes.

She’s daring him to defy her, to fight her on this and to undermine her and he’s waiting for her to come clean and tell him what ravens on about. But neither of them get to say anything or even think anything further because Octavia interjects carefully, raising her hand, “Uh, what if we use SWAT trucks?”

Everyone slowly turns to look at her and Monty offers a; “What?”

“For the getaway.” She says, eyeing everyone like she could make a faux pas at any moment, “What if we steal the painting in Canada instead of here, make it go back there somehow. We deliberately trip an alarm inside the museum and any respectable establishment is going to call for a swat team and the swat team leave with the painting. We don’t need someone on the inside for that which saves us exposure and loose ends and we can have as many trucks as we want.” And she shrugs like she hasn’t just come out with something from oceans eleven or like the idea isn’t a good one, because it _is._

Raven clears her throat, “Who are you again?”

“Octavia.” She says with a slight smirk.

Jasper clicks his fingers and points at her like he’s finally cracked some kind of code, “Dubai, 2016, you’re the one that rappelled-”

“That was _you?_ ” Raven echoes, raising both eyebrows.

And Octavia opens her mouth to say something, to boast or be bashful and smile or simply not say anything and fuel the mystery around the menace known as _‘O’_ , but she doesn’t get very far because Bellamy claps his hands to interrupt them, “That’s enough, we still have a plan to get through.” he reminds and Clarke nods.

“SWAT trucks are a good idea, unfortunately not for this job. We can't steal this painting in Canada because three of us aren't allowed back there." Clarke assures quickly, desperate to move away from any topic of conversation that isn’t about this job, “The Rijksmuseum doesn’t actually need the police because it has a private security contractor that does everything for them. Their guards, their systems, alarms, their safes and their security routes are all through _blackwater security_ on a closed and private circuit with an encryption that would take Monty weeks to break through.” Octavia goes to open her mouth again but Clarke beats her to it, “And yes we do in fact have just about enough time to do it, however, I don’t fancy resting my chances on something so uncertain with such a high margin or error, everyone okay with that?” She asks, almost sarcastically because she knows some of these hotheads too well and she knows some of them like jumping head first into concrete.

“Yeah.”

“Fine.”

“Fair enough.”

Bellamy scoffs and she huffs, “Good.”

“So the painting-” Clarke says, “is currently being shown at the  Rijksmuseum, on loan from the MMFA meaning there is international interest and government agencies that are very keen that it remains on their walls. The painting is landscape with cottages by Rembrandt and it was stolen once in 1972 by my father.” She pauses, “The buyer is me.” She admits, something she’d already told Bellamy, “So I will be paying you much more than it’s worth to make this job worthwhile.”

“Okay then, square one, how do we get-” Raven starts to point at the board once more but Murphy interrupts her.

“Yeah, Reyes is right, we can’t without-”

Monty huffs, “And then there’s that little thing called a-”

”Of which there are _three_ at least _!”_ The dark skinned woman explains, throwing her arms up in a sigh, “And that’s not even counting the motion sensors and the heat detectors and that _stupid_ fucking-”

Murphy snaps his fingers to agree, “And where would we get the-”

“Yeah, they stopped making those in 1977.” Monty reminds.

Raven shakes her head, “‘78.” She corrects, “but say we manage to get a hold of the-”

“Which we won’t because they haven’t manufactured any since 1978-” Monty interjects roughly and Clarke nearly smiles at the conversation before her, this is exactly what she wanted.

“Yeah, say by some miracle we manage to get a hold of it then how would we-”

“-we need more people, seven is not nearly enough.” Jasper assures.

Bellamy claps loudly, pointing to him with both hands waving while looking smugly at Clarke, “ _Thank you.”_ He exclaims and she just rolls her eyes.

“Then we'd have to disable the-”

“With _what?”_ Raven cries, “We can’t just _fake_ a Rembrandt like that-”

“So we’d have to call-”

“And she doesn’t want to hear from us, you think Echo wants to hear from us after what Bellamy-“

“Raven stop talking.” The person in question snaps in warning when Clarke turns to stare at him, her eyebrows pinched above her nose and Reyes’ voice stutters to a stop.

The blonde jerks her chin in Bellamy's direction under the watchful silence of the rest of the room, “What happened with Echo?” She asks carefully, an undertone to her voice suggesting both curiosity and agitation that he’s keeping something from her.

“Nothing.” He assures quickly.

She frowns deeper, her brain rolling at 100 miles an hour, “Because when you said she hated you I didn’t think it would affect this whole _job_.”

“It won’t.” He assures quickly, running his hand through his hair, “She’s more professional than that.”

“But she hates you?” Clark questions again.

He grimaces, “She doesn’t _hate me.”_

 _“Oh,_ she hates you.” Raven assures, slightly smug which earns her a glare from both of them.

“What did you _do?”_ Clarke asks again.

“Nothing.” He assures once more, “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

And Jasper doesn’t need to be told twice he just claps, “Okay so say by some miracle we manage to get Echo to make a fake-”

But clarke definitely hasn’t forgotten.

“Which she won’t because she hates Bellamy-”

“She doesn’t _hate_ me-”

“Yeah, say by some miracle we get her on board then we’d have to to find something to-”

“-And then carry it through the corridor and down _four_ -”

Octavia has no idea what the fuck is going on.

“Five.” Jasper corrects pointing to the blueprints on the wall, “That’s if we count the basement.” He adds.

“I’m not counting the basement.” Raven huffs, waving a dismissive hand and blowing the hair from her face.

Murphy glances at Clarke, “Do we count the basement?”

“Count the basement please.” Clarke asks from where she and Bellamy stand at the front of the room, watching genius unfold before them.

Ravens throws her hands up again, “down the corridor and _five_ flights of-”

Monty taps his chin, frowning at Clarke “If we’re counting the basement then are we-”

“We are.” The blonde assures.

“But then how do we-”

Jasper sheepishly rises from his seat and utters a; “we could always-”

There’s a chorus of “ _No.”_ and he sighs, defeated.

“You guys are _boring._ ” he says, dropping back down into his chair.

Clarke titters and Bellamy makes eye contact with her, displaying an innate joy at finally being reunited with the people he’s missed so much, but there’s a glint in the corner of his eye that tells her he hasn’t forgotten about the Lexa comment- not even for a second.

“So since we’re _not_ blowing the doors off, how do we get out?” Raven asks, “Because we can’t-”

“Woah, hold on, get _out?_ ” Octavia asks, waving her hands, “We haven’t even covered how we’re getting in, _or_ how we’re stealing the painting.” she reminds, almost frowning and glancing around the room- she must have missed something, those fragments of conversation can’t have been the _plan_

Clarke almost glares at her, “Were you even been paying attention?”

“She’s new.” Bellamy reminds, almost softly, like a small whisper in her ear and something only meant for her.

The blonde turns her head to raise an eyebrow at him and lowers her voice, “She’s _slow._ ”

“She’s learning.” he reminds.

She narrows her eyes, “Slowly.”

“Right, so, exit strategy.” Raven repeats, “What are doing about those trucks? I say four.”

Murphy grunts loudly and rolls his eyes, throwing his head in his hands, “Two, _two_ \- we _just_ had this conversation- did we not _just_ have this-”

___________

Clarke, or momentarily known as _Amelia Flottl,_ has managed to con her way into a private tour of the Rijksmuseum with about as much ease as the expected. She shouted and screamed and threw around her name, _flottl,_ and got the attention of the Director who came speeding down the stairs from his office at the first sound of her Alias’ surname.

“-This is unacceptable, i’ve been waiting outside for nearly twenty minutes in the freezing cold- is this _really_ how to treat potential investors?” she spits and the receptionist stares back in shock, “I was told I would have an escort meet me outside and show me around the security here but I’m starting to think that _maybe_ my boss shouldn’t allow his paintings to be shown here at _all_ if this is how i’m treated, my name is _Flottl_ and I should be in your little journal thing and _someone should_ have met me at the door.” She says, tapping the top of the man's computer.

The Director slides towards the reception, a barely controlled grin, “Miss Flottl?” he asks and she narrows her eyes at the beady little man before her, “There seems to have been some kind of Miscommunication but I definitely have the time to show you around our security, we’re honored your father would consider hanging _anything_ within these walls, do you happen to know by chance if the Portrait of-”

“Let's not be hasty.” she says abruptly, holding her hand up, “There will be no discussion of which paintings are to be hung until I have examined the full extent of your security.” she reminds quickly, “My father demands it.”

The director nods, “Of course, of course, I can assure you that our security is impeccable.”

The name Flottl isn’t so much as a name revered as it is a name said in an ‘ _ah’_ kind of voice. One of acknowledgement and understanding stemming from only one particular experience and many many news articles surrounding a mystery that took almost ten years to resolve. The story starts in Auvers-sur-Oise, France in June of 1890 where Vincent Van gogh sat at a table with Dr Gachet and painted two of his most Famous masterpieces. Version one and version two of the portrait of Dr Gachet of which version one is the one we’re concerned with today. it’s possession was passed between various french and german men before the nazi’s confiscated it in 1937 as part of it’s propaganda mission during the second world war.

The painting was then sold by a Nazi officer to a man Named Franz Koenigs who then transported this painting to New york, New york. The painting was then either sold of simply given to a man named Siegfried Kramarsky, a jewish banker who had fled Nazi germany and sought safety in the USA and was kind enough to loan it to various museums. Kramarsky passed away in 1961 and the painting was then put up for auction by his heirs in 1990 where it was sold to a man named Ryoei Saito, An extremely successful japanese businessman and the chairman of a paper company.

Saito bought the painting for $82.5 million which adjusted for inflation is actually $158.2 million which at the time was the most expensive painting ever sold, a record only broken 25 years later. Saito made a passing comment, explaining that since he paid such an extortionate amount in tax that to avoid his children having to pay it through their inheritance that he wanted to be cremated with the painting.

Saito died six years after his acquisition and three years after that, the MET put out a claim that they still hadn’t been able to locate the painting and that _the portrait of Dr gachet_ must have been cremated by the owner and now an invaluable painting and benchmark of art was lost.

The Art community mourned the loss of such a magnificent painting until in 2007 when it became public knowledge that the painting had in fact been sold in a private auction in 1998 to none other than Wolfgang Flottl.

The painting has yet to be seen since it’s sale to Saito in 1990 and so at the mention of Wolfgang Flottl any museum would _beg_ to show _the portrait of Mr Gachet_ and so we return in modern day Amsterdam where the director has many a question to pose the Heir of the Flottl fortune.

“I want to see where you plan to store the painting when it is not yet hung on your walls.” she asks, “I would obviously hope you have some kind of secure vault.” she emphasises and the Director nods vigorously as he leads her down a corridor, towards what is probably the CCTV room.

“Yes Miss, of course, follow me.”

___________

There are benches that line the rectangular pond outside the museum and they’re slightly soggy from the rain that hasn’t dried yet but neither of them realised when they sat down and now they’ve done it they might as well put their feet up and deal with it.

“You’re quiet.” Bellamy comments, taking a sip from his paper coffee cup and glancing at her over the rim.

She hums, taking a puff of her cigarette and crossing an arm over her chest to protect herself from the cold, “It happens sometimes.” she replies, a cloud of smoke escaping her mouth with a heavy breath.

He nods, pursing his lips and glancing around the square, his eyes narrowed to fight the wind, “I just think it’s-”

“What?”

“Weird.”

“That I’m quiet?” She frowns, glancing at him through the cigarette smoke.

“Well-” he cuts himself off, “There's always _something_ going on in your head.”

She huffs and shrugs, looking around the square once more, “Maybe you’re the one with something to say.” she comments passingly, watching birds patter carefully on lily pads before taking off into the cold. Her breath comes out in a cold mist and she tightens the coat around her, trying not to lose her nipples to the Amsterdam weather.

He watches her carefully, taking another sip of his drink, “Am I supposed to read between the lines?” he asks carefully.

“I didn’t say anything.” she shrugs, her lips tilted into a slight smirk.

He scoffs, “You said plenty.”

“And yet you’re still not talking,” she remarks, tapping the ash off her cigarette and rubbing the tip of her frozen nose. She looks soft and un menacing in the cold, bundled up and cuddled into a scarf with her cheeks puffed and tinted pink from the wind. He just kinds wants to pull her into a hug and squeeze her cheeks until she smiles and tells him he’s being an idiot.

He coughs, rearranging his train of thought, “So I _was_ supposed to read between the lines?” he repeats

She sighs loudly, rubbing her eyes until she sees spots, “That’s not what I meant.” she corrects but the damage is done, and it is, in fact, what she meant.

He rolls his eyes and licks his lips and Clarke involuntarily follows the movement, something that goes missed by him- _thank god-_ “So out with it then.” he starts, looking her dead in the eyes, “What do you want to ask?” and he’s got this tone of voice that says this is serious and he’s not here to fuck around and she’s suddenly not sure if she wants to have this conversation.

She swallows, “I assume there’s a catch.”

He smiles and her heartbeat stutters in her chest, “Isn’t there always?”

“So maybe we shouldn’t have this conversation.” She suggests quickly, raising an eyebrow.

“Why, because you’re not ready to talk about _the Sydney crew?”_ He throws out, waiting for a reaction that never comes because she barely blinks.

She rolls her eyes, “As if you’re any more ready to talk about Echo.”

“Echo’s a-“

“What?”

“- she a different story.” He reminds, “Echo is not _the Sydney crew_ , there’s something entirely different about my issues with my-” he quickly cuts himself off and she raising an eyebrow.

“Your _what?”_ She asks but she thinks she already knows the answer and it makes her feel slightly sick to her stomach.

“With _Echo.”_ He emphasises, grinding it out slowly between his teeth and trying not to look her directly in the eye, “There’s a huge difference between mine and echo’s animosity and than there is with you hiding _anything_ about _the Sydney crew._ ”

“ _How?”_ she blurts, “It’s-” and she roughly cuts herself off when she realises she might say _way_ too much. She takes a breath, taking another puff of her cigarette and shakes her head, “This conversation is pointless, we’re only going in circles.”

“Only because you won’t answer any questions.” He snaps back.

She scoffs, something bitter and frustrated and her jaw locks. “Okay.” She mutters, She doesn’t look at him, only takes a puff of her cigarette and a deep breath. “Did you fuck her?” She asks carefully.

His eyes drill into the side of her head but she still refuses to look at him, “Who?” He says in a voice that says this is _really_ serious.

She rolls her eyes, taking another puff, “Queen fucking Elizabeth you fucking moron who the fuck else?” She snaps harshly, harsher than she intended but he doesn’t recoil at her tone.

The silence that follows makes her stomach churn and eventually she turns her head to look at him and now they’re both staring at each other. Her skin feels hot and she finds it difficult to swallow the lump in her throat. He opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ , to tell her he did or he didn’t or that she meant nothing or everything or that everytime Clarke looks at him he feels like he’s just got a star power in mario kart and he’s going to cross the finish line with her on the other side. He wants to tell her that it was a mistake or that maybe it wasn’t, he wants to wrap his arms around her or maybe he wants to shake her until she sees that this is _stupid Clarke, I’m not a good person and you can’t be in-_

“You guys ready?” A voice cuts in and they both whip their necks around to stare at Raven. She’s standing in front of them with a lollipop in her mouth and a camera around her neck, “I got all the pictures we need so if you guys did your bit _woah-”_ she cuts herself off, looking between both of them and waving the gallery map in her hand, “There is a _weird_ vibe here and I don’t like it at _all._ ”

Bellamy huffs loudly and stands to his feet, “If you start talking about my aura I will drop kick you into Russia.”

_______________

“Japan, 2013.”

“Ha! I _wish._ ”

The garden furniture for the _cafe bourgeois_ sits precariously on the cobbled canal bed of somewhere in the nice part of Amsterdam and Octavia, Jasper and Murphy try their best not to stick the foot of their chairs into the wrong cobbled stone unless they wish to collapse entirely onto the ground.

Jasper takes a bite of his croissant as Octavia leans back in her chair and scans the surrounding area, never looking at him or murphy so that this task of surveillance isn’t half assed. Murphy traps a cigarette between his lips, rummaging through his pockets for a lighter, “Sydney?” he asks.

Jasper cocks his head, swallowing his mouthful, “2011 or 2015?”

Murphy waves his hand, the other one still searching through his pocket, “2012.” he specifies.

Octavia scoffs, “You think i’d be dumb enough to do _that?_ ”

“Brave.” he reiterates.

She rolls her eyes, “Suicidal.” she assures.

“That too.” he agrees, finally pulling a lighter out of the depths of his jacket and lighting his cigarette.

“What happened in sydney 2012?” Jasper asks carefully, not particularly sure he even _wants_ to know.

Octavia makes no move to answer so Murphy takes another puff of his cigarette, “A Pawn shop was robbed in January 2012.”

The other man frowns and shrugs, “So?”

Octavia sighs, “It wasn’t _just_ a pawn shop.”

Neither of them make a move to explain any further and Jasper begins to feel dumber and dumber when he opens his mouth to say, “Well, what was it?”

Murphy offers his cigarette to octavia but she shakes her head, not tearing her eyes away from the front door of a house she’s been staring out for nearly ten minutes now, “It was a front for the Sydney Mafia, they had stolen some gold bars from a bank in germany in 2009 and hid them in the pawn shop so they could make it into jewelry and sell them for some safe, untraceable cash.”

Murphy nods, “But in 2012 before they had a chance to get even halfway through the gold bars, someone broke in and stole the remaining fifteen. Obviously they couldn’t go to the police about it so very few people actually know this ever even happened.”

“Except you two?” Jasper points out.

Octavia shrugs, “Must have read it somewhere.”

“So it wasn’t you?” Murphy asks, raising an eyebrow.

She sighs, “Do you really think i’d admit to something like that?”

“It could get you noticed.” he reminds.

“It could also get me killed.” she scoffs.

“Only if you did it.”

She bites back a smirk, “Which I didn’t.”

“So you’re safe.”

“Exactly.”

And she finally turns to make eye contact with him, a glimmer in her eyes that says she’s very fucking dangerous and Murphy almost wants to laugh. But Jasper sits up in his seat, “He’s on the move.”

Octavia turns to look back at the door to watch a man step out of a house, saying goodbye and good day to the owners before returning to his extermination truck, walking slowly in his old age. Murphy points, “You’re up.”

Octavia rises to her feet, adjusting her collar and murphy hands her a pack of cigarettes that she shoves into her pocket. She doesn’t spare them a glance or even a word as she begins to walk away from the Cafe and towards the senile old man, flipping her hair over her shoulder and shoving her hands into her jean pockets.

“She’s-”

“Taken.” Murphy scoffs, almost a warning.

Jasper shrugs, “Still.”

They pause into silence as they watch her approach the old man under the pretense of a light and Murphy takes a deep breath, “Does she remind you of anyone?” he asks carefully, not wanting to reveal too much information, not knowing how vital it might be.

They barely notice there brunette pinch the phone she slipped into his pocket earlier. The other man cocks his head, “Not really.”

Murphy shrugs, “Just me, huh?”

_______________

Raven is leaning against the dining table, her nails scanning over sheets of papers and blueprints as Monty hands her more and more documents, rattling off their importance and significance that honestly she doesn’t particularly pay attention to because this is _crazy,_ no one has ever cracked a _MIlano 20_ and _who_ says the first person to do that will be _her?_

“I think there has been a miscommunication.” she starts carefully, holding up a picture of the safe for her to analyse once more- yep, still just as uncrackable, still just as heavy and large and jesus- a _milano 20_ how she would _kill_ to be able to dismantle one, to pull it apart and see how it ticks to simply be _able_ to do so would be a feat for the safe cracking community.

Clarke glances up from the blueprint laid across her lap and cocks her head at Raven, “Care to expand?”

“Well-” the engineer begins, pointing to the documents on the very _very_ old dining table- ( _it’s an antique! Get your dirty plates off of this masterpiece’_ bellamy had yelled loudly, shushing jasper and monty out of the rom. _‘Where am i supposed to eat my breakfast?’_ jasper yelled back.) “I can’t crack this safe.”

The blonde shrugs, turning back to the papers, “I know.” and the voice she uses is so nonchalant that raven’s even more confused.

“So why am I here?” she asks carefully, cocking her head.

The blonde sighs, jerking her chin to the blueprints, “You’re here to learn how.”

“I just told you I can’t” she repeats, “No one can.”

“No one can, _yet_ .” clarke reiterates, jumping off the table- ( _‘if bellamy sees you sitting there he’ll kill you’_ Monty reminded and the blonde rolled her eyes _‘Bellamy wouldn’t kill me even if he had to.’_ ) “You’re going to be the first.”

“Again, I think there has been a miscommunication.” the brunette repeats, narrowing her eyes this time, “No one can crack this safe because it’s uncrackable.”

“Nothing is uncrackable, you of all people should  know that.”

“Okay but-” and she cuts herself off with a loud sigh, “This is different. The Milano 20 has been around longer than any other safe and it’s only been cracked twice and each time it has been improved. It weighs too much to move, it’s dimensions are unknown because it has different layers of metal and glass and if you try any funny business the glass cracks and then you’re not getting in, this isn’t just impossible this is _insanity._ ” Raven’s narrowed eyes turn into a glare because clarke knows what she’s doing and there's no way she hasn’t thought this through, “If I can’t crack it in the four minutes-”

“Three, you get three minutes.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Raven cries, throwing her hands up.

Bellamy pokes his head around the doorway, eyeing the both of them before narrowing his eyes, “DId you tell her?” he asks carefully.

“I did.” Clarke assures.

“Oh, she did.” Raven repeats, a tone to her voice that suggests she’s not happy at all, “You’re both _idiots._ ”

Bellamy stands in the doorway, his shoulder leaning against it and he sighs, “That’s hurtful.”

“You hurt him.” Clarke repeats.

“You hurt me.”

“ _Fuck off.”_ Raven snaps, “the _Milano 20_ is called the _20_ because it is _number_ 20 on a top 40 list of uncrackable safes, it is not called the _milano 20_ because it took 20 people to put together and it’s not called the _milano 20_ because the person who invented it was twenty when she did that and it’s not called the _milano 20_ because it takes 20 seconds to crack-” she stutters, the words fighting their way out of her mouth and she can’t seem to keep up, “it could take 20 minutes or 20 years for all we know and I don’t think you should rest your chances on me being able to figure it _out_.”

Bellamy glances at Clarke who just nods, “You have four weeks.” she reminds monotonously, “Which in Raven time is more than enough.”

“Where are you even going to get your hands on one? Because I have to practice on a real _Milano 20_ and those things aren’t at your local corner shop.” She reminds, her resolve dwindling.

The blonde waved a hand dismissively, “Lincoln’s got one he’s letting us borrow.” And Raven has _so_ many questions and yet she knows clarke will have an answer for any of them and this conversation will go on forever.

“Okay well, the code for the door is _twelve digits_ and it changes every five minutes _every single day_ and the only two people who have the code are the head of security and the director so unless-”

“That’s already been handled.”

Instead she slams a file onto the table with a loud sigh and runs her fingers through her hair, they’re not going to listen to a thing she says and she should really have seen that coming. She tucks her hair behind her ears and swallows, “I’m going to need some supplies.” she concedes.

Clarke throws her a pen, “Make a list.”

_________________

**SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA**

Two days later, Clarke and Bellamy reluctantly leave the team behind in Amsterdam to call in some favours and connections vital to the completion of this job. Raven assures shell crack on with the safe while Monty continues to analyse the museums security and what kind of motion sensors they need to beat. Murphy continues pulling short cons like stealing identity badges and breakfast ( _‘I want a pain au chocolat’_ jasper cries but Murphy waved him off, _‘you get what you get, deal with it’_ .) Jasper tests out various motion sensors and lasers in the middle of the room that Monty and raven set up and everytime he get it wrong Raven sprays water in his face. Octavia gets a hold of guns and a _grenade_ and starts looking at sniper positions and how to get from point _a_ to point _b_ and-

“You think they’ll be alright?” Bellamy asks as they’re walking through the center of town, wrapped tightly in coats and scarves and gloves that keep their fingers warm.

The blonde shrugs, “What’s the worst that could happen?” She suggests and then chuckles slightly, “Okay, that wasn’t the best thing to say.”

“Definitely not.”

She glances around the tall buildings and packed pavements that they’re trying to navigate when she speaks up, “Do you know where you’re going?” She questions, shoving her hands further into her jacket.

“Yeah, we’re not far.” He assures.

She pauses for a moment, “Do you-”

“What?”

“Do you know what you’re going to say?” She asks, raising her eyebrows.

“How hard can it be?” He bristles.

“She hates you.” Clarke reminds.

“She doesn’t _hate_ me.” He reiterates, gesturing to the left and they turn down a corner street, their feet tapping against the cobbles as the city continues around them.

“It sounds like she hates you.”

“I don’t think she does.”

“This is where Raven would say that she hates you.”

He waves a hand, “Raven likes to stir the pot.” he says passingly because, really, it’s something they noticed a long time ago.

“Yeah but it started bubbling so really, who is she to resist?”

He laughs mockingly, “You’re an enabler.” he remarks, like they’re joking, ignoring the impending meeting with his unspecified ex girlfriend who he doesn’t call his ex girlfriend because was she really even that? And that’s exactly why they broke up so really, thinking about this isn’t productive; like, at all.

“You enable my enabling so who’s worse?”

He likes this.

He likes these conversation about everything and nothing at all, like they’re friends and everything is a joke and he can talk to her with such ease it’s shocking sometimes and he chuckles, “You. You’re worse.”

“So you _don’t_ know what you’re going to say?” Clarke asks, returning to the subject of conversation, aka the _whole_ reason they’re in south korea at all.

“I thought maybe something along the lines of, _‘i need your help and i’m sorry’_ how does that sound?”

“So she _does_ hate you?”

“She doesn’t-” he cuts himself off with a loud huff, “She doesn’t hate me.”

Clarke shrugs, “I guess we’ll find out.”

And she’s right because Bellamy points to a small, out of the way Korean restaurant hidden by hanging plants and tinted windows, or maybe the lighting inside just sucks, “We’re here.”

She raises an eyebrow, “What is she, the _chef_ or something?”

He rolls his eyes, “Just follow me. And don’t do that thing you do.” He begs, reaching for the handle of the front door.

“What thing?” She aka incredulously.

“That _thing.”_ And he thinks he’s reiterating but he’s not making any sense so she just follows him into the building.

They get a stink eye from a waiter who makes no move to seat them and pass through the tables of the reasonably empty space until they reach the kitchen entrance and manoeuvre their way through the flying pans and wild knives flying through the hair in various chefs hands- and Echo is definitely not one of them unless the weighs 500 kilos or Clarke had misidentified her race as Korean.

“Where are you taking me?” She asks. He doesn’t reply, “Bellamy- ” but Clarke doesn’t have time to ask anything else when he yanks the fridge door open with a grunt.

She raises an eyebrow and he just jerks his head, telling her to do it. She steps in, noticing it’s not that cold at all and that there’s two big burly men waiting on either side of the room. The door shuts ominously behind them and Bellamy wordlessly hands them his ID- and alias but still entirely valid thank you very much. Clarke quickly gets the message and follows suit.

The men nod at each other, “All in order.” They say in Korean and her Korean is a little rusty but she’s sure the words he then muffles the into his earpiece are _they’re good, open the door._

And Clarke is beyond fucking surprised when the entire front wall slowly creaks open to reveal a red velvet, dimly lit basement and underground gambling operation. There are blackjack tables and poker tables that work around the foundation of the building and exposed brick wall- not an aesthetic but out a laziness. They hear swearing and yelling and chips slamming into tables and then they hear guns click and suddenly they’re surrounded by a team of security guards.

Echo spears from the crowd and watches them both, their hands in the air and their faces sheepish. She narrows her eyes, more at Bellamy but Clarke is certainly not forgotten, “What are you doing here?” She demands, adjusting the collar of her suit.

Bellamy stutters for a second to find the right words and Clarke smirks, “Told you she hated you.”

___________________

**AMSTERDAM, NETHERLANDS**

“What,” Bellamy pauses to look around the room, “the fuck?”

“Oh hey bell.” Monty says, glancing up from his computer, barely sparing his leader a second look as he keeps typing.

Bellamy just continues to look around the room, his eyes wide open in shock. He drops his suitcase onto the floor and steps cautiously into the room- this _definitely_ isn't how he left it. There are long streaks of paint that rise up the wall, each a different, shittier colour than the last with writing in rough handwriting- _this one- no this one- this isn’t even yellow_. There are red laser wires that constantly move around the room and one nearly blinds him and he notices drill holes in the floor, few and far between and then clumps of them and he can see into the kitchen below.

“What happened here?” he demands, storming over the walls to run his fingers down the paint.

“Oh, you’re back early.” Raven says, stopping by the door with pots of paint in her hand.

Bellamy narrows his eyes, “No we’re not.”

“Is it Sunday already?” the brunette asks, raising her eyebrows and placing the paint pots onto the _vintage_ table and Bellamy tries not to have a heart attack.

“What are you doing?” he demands, waving his hands, “We were gone for three days and you’ve- you’ve…” he trails off, his eyes raking across the ceiling to make sure nothing else had happened.

“We’ve…?” Raven prompts, popping open a pot.

“You’ve massacred a perfectly good townhouse.” he cries, waving his hands.

“I mean, it was _fine_ it wasn’t _good_.”

“ _Raven.”_

“It needed sprucing up.” she defends quickly, “We all thought that the green was a little gloomy so-”

“ _We?_ ”

“Yes, _we.”_ she repeats, “ _We_ wanted to make it look nice.”

He narrows his eyes, “So you drilled holes into my _floor?_ ” he demands.

Jasper pokes his head around the door with carefully raised eyebrows, “I’m sensing some hostility in here and i’m curious.”

“Who drilled holes into my floor?” Bellamy repeats.

Monty points to the door without looking up from his laptop, “Jasper.”

“I was trying to figure something out.” he stutters out under Bellamy’s angry glare, stepping slowly into the room.

“And what exactly were you trying to figure out?” he demands.

Jasper looks sheepish, “if the drill worked.”

“Oh, I’m gonna-”

“You’re not going to kill anyone Bell.” Clarke assures, waving a hand as she saunters into the room, coffee in one hand and suitcase in the other.

“But he-”

“I know.” she assures, placing her suitcase next to his, “I could hear you in the kitchen.” she reminds, pointing downwards.

“Because there are _holes_ in my floor.” he reminds angrily, stomping his foot over said holes.

“ _I know.”_  and as she says those words a laser wonders into Bellamy's eyes again and he flinches.

“Turn that thing off.” he demands, and Monty shrugs slightly.

“I can’t, they’re following the movements of the one in the museum, if I turn it off then we’ll lose the connection.”

A bullet ripples through the air, sliding through the open window and burying itself into the wall, along with the ten others that Bellamy hadn’t noticed- “what the _fuck?”_  He shouts, looking back through the window only to notice Octavia standing on the roof opposite. He sighs loudly, pinching his nose and takes a deep breath, “Clarke.”

“Mhm.” she hums through her coffee, glancing at him over the rim.

“I’m going to kill someone.” he warns.

Clarke purses her lips slightly, watching his exhaustion and she doesn’t quite know where this has come from. Maybe more happened with echo that he’s telling her- okay more _definitely_ happened with echo and he’s stressed. She waves her hand, taking a sip of her coffee, “Kids, go to your rooms.” she orders and Monty slaps his laptop shut, shuffling out with the other two. He stands on the spot, his eyes shut and his fingers still pinched above his now, “Do you want to-”

“No.” He says quickly.

“Well I can-”

“Also no.”

“I’ll just-”

“Thanks”

There’s a pause as she bounces on the balls of her feet, coffee still in hand. She looks around the carnage of the room, the red lasers still travelling across the walls and she frowns at him, his posture and the frustration in the lines of his face.

“Whatever she said must have really knocked some wind into you because it’s been twenty four hours and you haven’t told me about it yet.” She remarks carefully.

“Who says I’ll tell you about it?”

She waves a hand, “We don’t have secrets.”

He clicks his tongue, “And yet here we are.”

“Wow that bad huh?”

“Not bad.” He says quickly and sees her look of skepticism, “Not great.”

“But she’ll do it?” The blonde asks curiously.

“Yeah.”

She cocks her head, “Then why wait the whole flight back to Amsterdam to tell me that?”

Bellamy titters, “She doesn’t like you.”

Clarke raises an eyebrow, sitting on the arm of a nearby arm chair, “Am I supposed to be upset?”

He frowns, “I thought you’d be surprised?”

“Why, because I’m such a delightful person?” She mocks slightly, taking another sip of her drink. She chuckles at his bored reaction.

“She doesn’t like you because of me.” he specifies carefully because he knows how that seems and even what it could like like.

Clarke doesn’t miss a beat, “Don’t care.” and the immediacy of her reaction makes a slow smile spread across his face and her stomach clenches slightly and she forgets how to breathe.

And they’re staring at each other until Clarke is smiling softly over her mug of coffee at the man before her, a million thoughts racing through her head when he looks at her like that- or maybe he’s looking at her like normal and she’s just reading _way_ too much into it. There’s a frizzle of electricity in the air when he walks towards her, his hands dug deep in his pockets, “You know-”

“I know.” she replies slowly.

He nods quickly, slowing down to stop in front of her and she can see the freckles on his cheeks like their splashes of paint on canvas and he’s some kind of oil painting- soft and warm and beautiful and he opens his mouth again, “She hates you because-”

“I was never a _threat.”_ She interrupts roughly.

He just shrugs, “She didn’t think that.”

“Then maybe you did something to make her think that.” Clarke remarks.

He takes a deep breath, “She doesn’t understand our-”

“Do _you?_ ” She replies just as fast.

He stops short, staring at her because he doesn’t think _either_ of them understand their relationship. He swallows carefully, “we were…” He trails off, scratching the back of his neck.

She nods, not saying anything and taking a sip of her coffee as her eyes trail over the room, “So you fucked her.”  She asks but really it’s more of a statement.

And suddenly he’s defensive or something and his eyes narrow on hers, “You don’t get to be-”

“I’m not fucking j-”

“Sounds like you are.” He almost shouts.

“I just find it _fascinating_ that-”

“Oh you _do,_ do you?” He mocks, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms.

She scoffs, shaking her head, “Fuck you.”

And he’s got this bitterness in the corner of his mouth when he smirks, “Yeah.” He says, “She did.” And he knows he’s taunting her but when she looks so fucking furious he can’t help it.

She stares at him, her jaw wired into a scowl as she stands to her feet and he thinks she’ll say something- yell at him or scream of throw her mug but instead she turns on her heel and walks wordlessly out of the room. 

**Author's Note:**

> i'd appreciate if you hit that kudos and even left me a sneaky little comment so that i know if you enjoyed it, or even if you hated it because i really adore hearing from you all x


End file.
